


Taming the beast

by kjollar



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon hunting, Fluff, Gen, Humor, M/M, Party Banter, Romance, Smut, a little bit of drama and near death experiences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-25 21:26:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3825643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjollar/pseuds/kjollar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor's and his companions' misadventures in dragon-taming, with a side-order of banter and plans for world domination.</p><p>(now with bonus smut chapter. It's the last one, and the only one that merited a higher than "T" rating. Enjoy :))</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was struck with this silly idea just today and I simply _had_ to get it out.  
>  It will be just a couple of chapters long, with mostly humor and maybe a bit of smut. 
> 
> Comments and kudos will be greatly appreciated.

“We should tame a dragon!” the Herald of Andraste declared with a decidedly unholy gleam in his bright amber eyes.

The members of the War Council shared dubious looks.

“What brought this on, if I may enquire?” Josephine asked, shuffling her stack of urgent requests from nobles from all over Thedas more out of habit than in an attempt to find there a reason behind the Inquisitor’s sudden proclamation.

“Maybe you shouldn’t spend quite so much time with the Iron Bull,” Leliana commented mildly. “His fascination with the beasts is starting to – khm – rub off on you.” Although the only one of the trio not to witness the esteemed leader of the Inquisition in flagrante, the Spymaster had the least reservations in mentioning it to his face – not that Mahanon Lavellan ever displayed even a hint of embarrassment over anything. He now favored the quip with a mildly disapproving frown, as if to say that he didn’t see a reason to bring his sexual practices into the war room.

“How exactly do you plan to tame it, Your Worship?” was Cullen’s contribution, his overly respectful form of address the only sign of his own skepticism.

“I’ll reply in the order of relevance, starting from the least important,” Lavellan sniffed haughtily and spared a couple of seconds of total silence which was apparently his answer to Leliana’s observation. Cullen couldn’t help smirking a little: lady Montilyet’s lessons in _the Game_ definitely fell on fertile soil, since the dalish elf already had his air of superiority down pat even before studying the appropriate mannerisms of the Orlesian court.

“The tame dragon will be extremely useful,” the Inquisitor smoothly moved on to Josephine’s question. “Imagine making all those trips that take us weeks now in just a day! Of course, dragons aren’t big enough to carry a whole squad of soldiers, but an advance party – namely myself and a couple of my companions – is perfectly enough for my comfort.” And the Inquisitor’s comfort _must_ be of paramount importance to all his followers, was the unvoiced end of his sentence.

It was good for all of them that only the so called inner circle saw this side of Lavellan: selfish playfulness wasn’t a trait generally expected of the famed Herald of Andraste, bringer of peace, defeater of demons and closer of rifts. (But no wonder that he and Dorian hit it off right from the start – they were frighteningly alike in some aspects).

“It will also be a great boost for morale of our troops and the Inquisition’s image on the whole,” the elf continued in the same breath. “Corypheus has a dragon – so we should have one as well. Puts us on an equal footing and sends a clear message to allies and enemies alike.” And then, there was the daring and trust in his own power that compelled the Inquisition to follow its leader. Taming a dragon was an unattainable ambition, but the Herald had already defied expectations more than once. If he were to achieve this newest goal it would indeed serve to solidify their position as a force capable of taking on the ancient Magister with aspirations of godhood.

“As for the means – and thank you, Commander, I can always count on you to bring up the most pertinent matters –” the Inquisitor inclined his head in Cullen’s direction, “I’ve recently made acquaintance of a draconologist in the Hissing Wastes–”

“Do you mean the Western Approach?” Leliana corrected tactfully.

“Do I?” Lavellan scrunched his face in thought, absentmindedly shuffling the little markers on the western end of the map. “It all looks the same to me, very hissing and wasty. But no matter!” he continued with a decisive swipe of his hand. “This Frederic the Draconologist claims he can lure out an Abyssal High Dragon – so that’s half a job done. As for taming itself, I’m sure Dorian and Solas can dream something up; a magical harness or maybe a mind-control spell. In fact, I’ll be talking to them right after we finish here.”

“What about madame de Fer?” Josephine asked with a slight frown. “Shouldn’t she be a part of this venture as well?” It wasn’t a secret that the two women grew close during Vivienne’s stay at Skyhold, often collaborating on matters of diplomacy and interior decoration.

“She calls me ‘my dear’. I don’t like her,” Lavellan answered bluntly. “If you think she’d be offended, just send her off to politely scare some more nobles into joining our cause – she’s good at that.” He nodded decisively, but then, almost against his will, returned to the previous thought. “Even my friends don’t call me ‘my dear’; do I look like a _dear_ to you?” There was so much sincere affront in his tone that Cullen couldn’t help mentally comparing him to a hissing cat.

“I must admit, my tongue almost twists when _I_ try to call you that,” the Ambassador smiled placatingly.

“And that’s why you’re my favorite advisor,” the Inquisitor nodded with approval, “after Cullen, of course,” he added quickly, as if truly worried that the Commander would take his ‘demotion’ badly.

“There are only three of us here,” Leliana observed impassively, while putting all the markers of the desert region back where they belonged.

“Not to worry, I still like you much better than Corypheus, so that’s something, right?” Lavellan tone was all guileless innocence. “Do we have anything else to discuss? No? Then I’ll be going to round up my mages. Bye!” And the indomitable Herald of Andraste walked out of the war room with a jaunty wave of his slightly glowing hand.

“Do you remember,” Leliana murmured wistfully, “the good old days when he had listened to our reports with that look of concentration on his face and actually asked for our advice before going off on some madcap adventure?”

“He still does that,” Cullen objected for the sake of fairness: Mahanon regularly came to his office to discuss strategy and always listened to the Commander’s suggestions with utmost seriousness. “Doesn’t he?” he added with a little more doubt in his voice when met with two unconvinced gazes.

“You really _are_ his favorite,” Josephine laughed.

“Lucky you,” Leliana added, patting him on the shoulder on her way to the door. “Oh, look at him, Josie, he’s all pleased!” she cooed to Josephine, linking arms with the other woman.

Cullen pretended not to hear their tittering (and ignore his own slight blush), busying himself with the scattered reports until he was sure he’d be safe from more teasing if he left the room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and leaving kudos. It inspires me)

“We aren’t going to kill it.”

“Yes, boss.”

“We aren’t even going to maim it, especially its wings.”

“All right, boss.”

“It will be only a little demonstration of our strength, so it would know who’s the master–”

“–and a distraction to give you time to get the harness over it, I know, I know. You don’t need to repeat all this for the fifth time, actually, I am very well trained to follow instructions.”

“Well, I don’t know… Your head is all the way up there, I’m always worried that my words will scatter on the winds before reaching the appropriate height.”

Dorian snorted softly and turned his eyes away from the two-man comedy routine. Not that there was anything interesting to observe in the never-ending desert of the Western Approach their little caravan was travelling though. Two dracolisks pulling a cart with the bait for the dragon were best left as far behind as possible – or at least out of smelling range – so the only alternative to observing the by-play of the Inquisitor and his Qunari was talking to Solas, who looked even more austere by comparison.

That, unfortunately for the elven mage, had long ceased to be an adequate deterrent.

“So, Solas, you’re an elf–”

“Noticed that, did you?”

“Yes, yes, I’m a master of observation and a paragon all around,” Dorian flapped his hand dismissively, “but what I’d meant was: is this a normal behavior for your people?”

Solas cocked his head to get a proper look at his companion from under his cap (scout Harding was very insistent that all of them wear something to protect their heads from the desert sun).

“Are you talking about wanting to have big horned deadly beasts as pets?” he clarified.

Dorian chuckled appreciatively, following the elf’s gaze to the still bickering couple.

(“There are times,” Lavellan was saying, “when your bloodlust kind of wipes all our pre-made plans out, so I’m hoping that repetition will drive them a little bit deeper into your brain.”

“You should’ve also tried a bit of positive reinforcement then.”

“What a pity I’m all out of sugar cubes, _ma sulahn’nehn_.”)

“Yes, that,” he agreed.

“I can’t say I’ve observed it before,” Solas said musingly. “But as Mahanon likes to repeat, he’s what he is _in spite_ of his clan, not _because_ of it.”

“Sounds like you approve,” Dorian commented idly. He could never get a proper read on the elven mage, with his unassuming behavior and a total lack of desire to impose his opinion on anyone unfortunate enough to listen.

“An ability to overcome boundaries of superfluous traditions is deserving of admiration. You, of all people, must be aware of that.”

“Ah, well, it’s only common sense to eschew traditions that bring about world’s destruction,” Dorian blustered to cover a pleased flush at the compliment, turning slightly away from his companion.

A pearl of laughter drew both mages’ gaze to the other would-be dragonhunters. The Iron Bull apparently tried to slap their inimitable leader on the ass but the elf dodged with practiced ease and then, quicker than the eye could see, climbed the Qunari to stand upside down with his hands on the wide-spread horns.

“Are you comfortable up there, kadan?” Bull asked indulgently, trying to look up without dislodging his ‘passenger’. He shouldn’t have worried – Lavellan had no problem in compensating for his movements. After a couple of ‘steps’ with his hands over the horns he neatly folded himself in half and landed sitting on the Qunari’s shoulders.

“Not really,” he replied, patting the bare skin of Bull’s head (because of course the mercenary insisted that a little sun wouldn’t harm him and refused the headgear). “But this way I can use you as a stand-in for the dragon – I need to train on _something_ , after all,” and he made a motion as if to unwind the harness they’d prepared for the dragon-taming.

“Should I buck and roar to make it more real for you?”

The Inquisitor chuckled and bent low to whisper his reply into his mount’s ear.

“Maybe this is some obscure courting ritual you’re not familiar with,” Dorian suggested, instinctively turning away from such an open display of intimacy.

“ _Ropes winding, tightening with every turn, taut across my skin and over my heart. Joy in the giving, trusting them to hold secure. What was that word again? Why do I even need it?_ ”

“Cole!” Dorian yelped. “What did I tell you about randomly appearing and blurting out people’s innermost thoughts?”

“But he doesn’t mind,” the spirit replied guilelessly. “ _You can say whatever you like. It doesn’t bother me, lethallin._ ”

“It may not bother _him_ , but it still makes _me_ uncomfortable,” Dorian objected; overtime he’d learned that forthrightness – as alien as it was to him after years of conditioning – was the easiest way to make his point to Cole.

“Oh. But it’s not hurting you anymore,” Compassion smiled hopefully and Dorian wondered how was it that Lavellan was never troubled by his private thoughts being voiced for all to hear. Didn’t the man have any weakness he wanted to hide?

“Speaking of,” the Inquisitor, still sitting impossibly high, had apparently ordered his dragon stand-in to let the rest of their group catch up to them and now effortlessly joined the conversation, “why _do_ you say it? Most of the time you’re speaking about the others’ pain…”

“It’s not hurting you, it’s helping with the hurt. There was an emptiness inside, and you didn’t even know until it wasn’t there anymore.”

“You can’t honestly say that you’re not embarrassed hearing that!” the mage demanded with a dramatic flourish in Cole’s direction, although Lavellan’s face was as calm as ever (the same couldn’t be said for the Iron Bull, however: despite all the Ben-Hassrath training Dorian noticed a pleased softening of his indifferent expression and a barely there upward movement of his eye.)

“I’m only embarrassed when I try to say these things myself,” the Inquisitor shrugged. “Cole does all the hard work for me _and_ he makes it sound much more poetic and profound than I ever could.”

Dorian could only shake his head in bewilderment: no matter what troubles he himself had with communication, he still preferred his thoughts to stay on the inside of his head until such a time when he decided to share them.

“Heads up!” Lavellan ordered sharply. “I think we’re finally at the place Frederic described. Time to capture our own dragon!” he declared enthusiastically, slid down from Bull’s shoulders and jogged to the cart, Cole trailing curiously behind him, while the Qunari went ahead to scout the area. Dorian serenely ignored the activity and maintained his steady pace, since his role didn’t start before the dragon was actually lured to the valley.

“You are remarkably patient with him.”

Dorian cursed colorfully in tevene. Solas had once again managed to fade into the scenery so that the other mage momentarily forgot about his presence. He’d probably learned the cheat from his spirit friends in the Fade!

“You mean Cole? He just grows on you, doesn’t he? I imagine it’s like having a kid brother who’s always pestering you with endless questions and delights in telling all the father’s guests about that one time you set your own robes on fire.” Dorian smiled with genuine warmth. “We’re all rather turning into a weird family here, don’t you agree?”

“What is my place in this family then?” Solas asked unexpectedly. Dorian smirked.

“That’s easy. You’re that eccentric cousin everyone tries to respectfully avoid because parents told them scary stories about you at night. ‘If you don’t behave yourself, uncle Solas will come and take you into the Fade’, or something like that. ”

For a moment, there was a disturbed frown on the elf’s face, but then he chuckled and said: “Hmm, that’s a step up from ‘apostate hobo’, at least.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ma sulahn’nehn_ means 'my joy' (if DA wiki is to be believed).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of seriousness creeps in, but then we return to humor (and unexpected fluff)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised myself to write a chapter a day, and technically it still counts. Don’t know if I’ll be able to keep it up tomorrow. But hey, the dragon is caught, so that's something!

When Solas decided to join the Inquisition he was fully aware that he’d have to face a fair share of dangerous and bizarre situations, but no amount of forward planning could prepare him for meeting Mahanon Lavellan and his unique brand of reckless genius. It wasn’t enough for the Inquisitor to defeat a dragon, he proposed _capturing_ one as a ‘logical next step’ – the exact quote from a speech he delivered to Solas and Dorian before tasking them with creating a means of taming the beast. And the strangest thing wasn’t even that there _was_ a certain logic to his mad proposal; it was that he had every chance to succeed.

Solas blinked the sand out of his eyes and shielded them to try and track the movements of the dragon against the endless void of the noonday sky. Unfortunately, the beast was not but a fleck on the horizon, so the elf could only hope that the harness they’d developed would be worth the trust Mahanon put into its creators.

Their plan of attack had been one of the better thought-out – not because the Inquisitor generally lacked strategic thinking, but mostly because a significant number of the fights he engaged in was a surprise for both parties involved. In the case of the Abyssal High Dragon, however, they had the luxury of setting up their field and taking advantageous positions beforehand.

The mages arranged themselves at the opposite ends of the small valley, with natural or – in Dorian’s case – artificial protections against any sudden bursts of flame. It was at times terrifying to watch the three warriors duck and weave between the dragon’s legs, but at least Solas wasn’t too worried for his own safety while casting barriers and ice-spells. The elf couldn’t see Dorian, hidden as he was between the crumpled columns of some ancient portico, but judging by the sweeping waves of frost that bore his signature flashy style the tevinter mage had no problems on his end as well.

When Mahanon finally managed to scale the dragon’s leg and snap the first loop of the harness over its neck the hardest part was supposed to be over. Theoretically – and Solas used the term loosely, since the theory of it all was quite sketchy – the harness and the corresponding amulet the Inquisitor wore around his neck should have established a rudimentary connection between the elf and the beast that let him give it orders. Cole’s unorthodox understanding of magic and ability to voice anyone’ feelings were also supposed to help with the fine-tuning of the bond. (Iron Bull had nothing to do with the magical side of taming, but no-one questioned his eagerness to get onto the dragon’s back if he got the chance). So that left the two mages of their group to patiently wait on the ground while the Inquisitor communed with his new pet.

Theoretically.

In practice, it happened this way: when the dragon first felt the magic taking hold it went berserk, screeching and roaring and jumping and even trying to roll to shake its’ riders off; and then it took to the skies, apparently hoping to rid itself of the pests in flight. Physical safety of the people using the harness was mostly Dorian’s responsibility, but they both checked the enchantments multiple times and were reasonably sure they’d protect the riders; still, Solas was understandably anxious.

When dust settled over the battlefield, he was relieved to see no broken bodies on the ground. But then, with a jolt of horror, he realized that the ruin Dorian had used as cover had been absolutely leveled in the struggle.

There’s nothing quite so effective in making you realize you care for someone than thinking they might be dead. Solas wasn’t prone to swearing, but a few choice words were spared for the sand, for the structurally unsound ruins and for Mahanon’s crazy ideas while he ran across the valley (which didn’t seem all that small when not occupied by a giant lizard).

“Dorian, can you hear me?” he yelled, skidding to a stop near the pile of stones that had been the portico not so long ago.

“Yes,” came a muffled reply, “and let me tell you, no music that ever touched my ears was as beautiful as your dulcet tones, Solas.” The elf’s chuckle was part relief, part exasperation: it seemed that even in a life-or-death situation Dorian couldn’t abandon his flowery speech. “But if you would please hurry?” the tevinter mage continued. “I’d like to also see the face that goes with the voice.”

Solas frowned with renewed worry, not fooled for a moment by the flippant tone. “I’ll go as fast as I dare.”

“Of course.” Was there a bit of a slur in Dorian’s voice? Imagination supplied Solas with several unpleasant scenarios he’d had to erase with an effort of will before examining the rocks more closely. There was no feasible way to lift them all at once.

“These ruins are definitely dwarven,” Dorian prattled on while he carefully shifted layers of stone and sand. “For the guys who went to live on the surface they sure loved to dig. I swear even their tool sheds must have three-level cellars. Ugh, I think the thing poking me in the ribs is a piece of the paragon what’s-his-face.”

Dorian obviously meant a piece of a _statue_ , but for a moment previous experience made Solas think about an actual animated corpse of paragon Fairel. “Be glad it’s not trying to kill you,” he advised absently.

“Now _that_ would have been a blatant overkill!” came an already much clearer – and very indignant – response. “Are you close? I think it’s getting lighter here.”

After removing several more slabs of stone Solas was greeted with a soft shimmer of a barrier that was obviously the sole reason Dorian hadn’t been crushed to death in the collapse. It was dispelled hesitantly and the mage – disheveled and covered in sand and dust – climbed out of the hole.

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” he proclaimed with feeling before lurching sideways and almost falling to his knees. Solas caught him with an arm across his chest and cautiously lowered them both on the sand.

“You’ve cracked your head in the fall,” he said, gently probing around the wound he’d half expected to find (it was actually his best case scenario as opposed to, for example, a stone spike though the gut).

“My ribs too, I’d wager,” Dorian agreed, slumping forward and making Solas tighten his hold reflexively. “And my staff is a lost cause; good thing it was generic enchanter ice issue – if it was _Spellburst_ I’d probably cry.”

The elf huffed a quiet laugh.

“When they tell the stories of this glorious day, please make sure they say I was felled by a dragon – not crushed under rocks because of an ill-advised choice of a hiding spot.”

“Maybe you should just… keep silent while I work?” Solas suggested, shaking his head. Healing another mage was a tricky business: their aura tended to resist any intrusion, especially when a wound made them vulnerable.

“What? I’m practically dictating my last will and testament here!” Dorian whined. “Speaking of which: my stash of that herbal mixture you liked so much is on the second shelf to the right of the window in my library nook, behind the _Complete Collection of Discourses_ by Divine Hortensia III.”

Solas was sure he shouldn’t encourage the inane chatter (and suspected the head injury was part of the reason it was so abundant even by the tevinter’s standards), but curiosity won over reason. “Why are you hiding it there?”

“It’s not _hiding_. I _keep_ it there for when I want to drink it myself.” He was silent for a moment before continuing: “and I also wanted to see if the smell would lure you up one day. It didn’t,” he lamented.

“It was tempting,” the elf said consolingly.

Judging by the gradual relaxation of the body Solas still held in an awkward sideways hug, the pain was lessening as the healing spells took root. He shifted his hand from the back of Dorian’s head to his ribs, searching for cracks.

“Funny, isn’t it?” Dorian muttered with none of his previous zest. “Out of all the Inquisition I’m best liked by a spirit, a Qunari and two elves.”

Solas paused for a moment. “Apparently, some of us have discerning taste,” he said, smiling softly down at the dark head.

“Thank you.”

The rest of the healing process was spent in silence.

When it was complete, Dorian shifted back, so he could turn and meet the elf’s gaze. “Thank you,” he repeated with a smile of his own. “It means a lot.” Then he promptly busied himself with brushing the sand off his robes and trying to make his hair look presentable again. “Well, that was fun in a nerve-racking, as-I-face-my-final-hour-I-turn-to-you-oh-Maker kind of way. Let’s _never_ do this again!”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Solas nodded, but there was a nagging suspicion in the back of his mind that it wasn’t the last dragon-taming they’d participated in.

*

Bonus

*

“What about the Inquisitor? I guess his part of the job went more smoothly than mine since you had the time to dig me out of the rubble?”

“I wouldn’t know. Last I saw he was a speck on the horizon. He either perished valiantly or forgot about us in his triumph.”

“Do you think they’d let us back into Skyhold without him?”

“I think… it’s best that we wait here a bit longer.”

“…Yes, let’s do that. I’m also still a little dizzy. Can I put my head on your lap?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Spellburst_ is one of the rare fire staves in DA:I
> 
> Honestly, I’d no idea that it will come to this when I started to write. I also didn’t expect to like Dorian _or_ Solas when I read some spoilers before playing DA:I, but here you go! I love them both, and I love their (nerdy) party banter, so they turned out quite close in the story - all the time they’d spent together creating the dragon-taming harness certainly helped. (Dorian also bribed Solas with herbal tea, since he also detested the normal fereldan kind).  
>  A little bit more of this, and I’ll talk myself into creating a pairing out of this. Someone, help!
> 
> P.S. you can find me on tumblr (kjollar.tumblr.com), although I don't do anything but lurk there. you can still send me a message, though :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much humor here, but the triumphant return simply had to be done.

Cullen didn’t think much of the Inquisitor’s plan to capture a dragon.

Literally, he didn’t have a lot of time to think about it. Every day the Commander had a thousand matters small and large to occupy his attention, and although he knew that Lavellan hardly ever joked about his battle plans the topic never really came up again. Well, Dorian talked quite enthusiastically about the creation of dragon-taming harness once over chess, but at the time Cullen suspected it was a ploy to confuse him with magical mumbo-jumbo and thus distract him from the game.

The Inquisitor left for Western Approach several weeks ago with an additional force, their main objective being retaking the Griffon Wing Keep from the Venatori. The Herald had said he was also planning to explore a couple of promising areas, although Cullen still didn’t have a very clear impression on what criteria Lavellan used when determining if an area was worth investigating. Anyway, there were no words exchanged on the topic of dragons, so the Commander assumed that the venture was either postponed or scrapped altogether.

That was why, when the door of his office opened and admitted not only Leliana, who rarely left the makeshift aviary and the company of her birds, but Josephine as well, Cullen’s mind flashed through a number of terrifying scenarios, not once coming close to the truth.

“Are we under attack?” he demanded, swiftly rising from his chair.

“No-no, relax, Commander,” Leliana murmured soothingly.

“What is it then?” he barked a lot harsher than intended due to his nerves still thrumming with tension.

“I’ve just now received some curious news that I think you should be made aware of,” the Spymaster answered in her honeyed accent.

“And Josephine?” he asked a bit more quietly – meaning, ‘why did Josephine need to come along for the delivery’ – while stretching his hand for the report she’d been waving around in her hand.

“You’ll understand when you read it,” was the cryptic response.

Cullen scanned the text quickly, blinked, and then read it once again, checking every other word to make sure he understood them right.

“The Inquisitor captured a dragon?” he uttered incredulously. “And he started the return journey immediately, riding on its back?” Cullen lifted his head and took in the two women’s expressions – one of smug amusement, the other of barely restrained agitation. “Are you sure it’s not a prank?” _Or maybe it’s you two who decided to play it on me_ , he added mentally.

“That is quite easy to discover. Even with the message delivered by one of my fastest birds it couldn’t be more than an hour ahead for the Inquisitor himself. Dragons are notoriously fast and tireless flyers,” she explained half-mockingly in answer to his disbelieving stare.

“We were just going to the western lookout,” the lady Ambassador stepped in, spurred by instinct to dispel a potentially hostile interaction. “If the message is true, it won’t do for the guard to sound the alarm and spread unnecessary panic.”

That certainly was a valid consideration. After Haven even Cullen himself wasn’t sure he’d be able to maintain composure at the sight of an approaching dragon. But what if it was all an enemy’s ruse to make them lower their guard and let Corypheus’ arch-demon reach Skyhold unopposed? No, it couldn’t be – only closest to the Inquisitor knew of his mad plan, not even everybody in the inner circle was aware of it; such dubious information could hardly be leaked to the enemy.

Cullen scolded himself for excessive paranoia and nodded to the women. “Let’s go then,” he said decisively.

Skyhold was protected from the west by numerous mountains and ravines that made travel by land utterly impossible, thus the western lookout duty was not taken all that seriously by anyone. It was no surprise that the guard assigned to it was sitting on the windowsill utterly relaxed and staring dreamily in the distance – and subsequently almost fell out of said window in his haste to stand up and salute the top-brass of the Inquisition.

“As you were,” Cullen ordered, hiding a smile.

“In fact,” Leliana continued smoothly, “why don’t you go and patrol the battlements for a little while to stretch your legs?”

The guard shot a questioning glance at his Commander who nodded after a momentary hesitation. It was for the best that no-one saw the dragon and started questioning the command decisions before they were sure it was indeed the Inquisitor returning. There was a chance, of course, that someone on the walls would glimpse the beast before that, but no vantage point was as convenient as the western lookout and everybody would still expect the alarm to be sounded from there.

The minutes of anticipation were extremely tedious for Cullen: the mountaintops were not all that interesting to watch and his thoughts – when he wasn’t incredulously turning in his head the notion of Lavellan and his party riding a dragon – inevitably returned to the veritable avalanche of reports and requisitions that was waiting to bury him on his return to the office. He had no doubt that the cursed papers took their chance to multiply while he wasn't looking.

His only distraction was Leliana and Josephine's quiet discussion of the upcoming Winter Ball. Apparently, it was postponed for the third time because of the stalemate of the warring sides, both of which considered their position not advantageous enough to start proper negotiations. Cullen was of a strict opinion that ‘The Game’ orlesians were so enamored of had long transcended any reasonable boundaries and began to rule them all, often to the detriment of the country. (The Herald, who seemed to have an instinctive understanding of its convoluted rules, agreed with him in principle which hadn’t prevented him from making several moves that delighted Josephine).

When his eyes informed Cullen that a reddish speck of light between two mountains was not just a reflection of the sun on a snowcap, but was actually a moving and growing entity, he was flooded with panic despite all his previous expectations.

“It’s coming,” he warned his companions, squinting at the distance. “Pray that it is indeed the Inquisitor, or we’ll be making our final mistake.”

The Ambassador and the Spymaster rushed to the window to see the approaching shape for themselves.

It _was_ a dragon. It seemed innocuous from so far away, but Cullen still instinctively felt the terrifying size of the beast. Its scales were red and golden – distinctly different from Corypheus' black – but the anxiety stubbornly persisted in the Commander's tightening gut and trembling hands.

And then, as if in answer to his silent prayers, a blue-and-green symbol of the Inquisition flared over the fast approaching creature.

“Thank the Maker!” he breathed out reverently – a sentiment that was promptly echoed by his two companions.

“I’ll stay here just in case,” Leliana murmured, her voice betraying only the tiniest bit of awe she must have been feeling. “You two should go down, ensure that the people are not worried needlessly before the Inquisitor can make the official announcement.”

Cullen was already halfway down the stairs. The Spymaster’s assessment was correct, as always: several guards had caught disturbing glimpses of movement between the mountains and a wave of troubled whispers spilled forth into the courtyard. The people were gathering, muttering to each other and casting worried eyes to the sky. One of the lieutenants came over hurriedly as soon as Cullen left the tower.

“Commander, there are reports of–”

“There is no threat,” he reassured in his most authoritative voice. “Prepare for the Inquisitor’s return.”

The soldier’s uncomprehending frown clearly showed that he couldn’t fathom the connection between sighting of a dragon and the Inquisitor’s arrival. But he didn’t have to puzzle it out for long.

“Inquisition!” the Herald’s exultant voice rang loud and clear over Skyhold. All heads turned to their leader, standing tall on one of the balconies that encircled the highest tower. “Behold the power of your new weapon!”

With an ear-splitting shriek a dragon – horrifying and awe-inspiring in its enormity – shot upwards behind him, turned sharply in midair and started to circle in a widening spiral around the keep. The air below filled with fearful shouts that gradually changed to cries of joy and voices raised in grateful prayer. When people started to kneel, Cullen took a steadying breath and unclenched his hand from the hilt of the sword.

“One thing to be said for our dear Herald,” Josephine laughed over the noise of the crowd, “he can certainly make an entrance!”

“Well, he can’t lower the bar after that first time stepping out of the Rift,” Cullen commented. “Although I don’t believe he planned to get a reaction quite like that or will be thrilled with it.” Almost everyone in sight now had one knee on the ground, chanting the lines they thought most appropriate for the momentous occasion.

“He may not believe as we do, but he is not above using the others’ faith for the good of this world. Surely the Maker smiles upon him; upon us all.”

Cullen shrugged imperceptibly. He hadn’t felt comfortable discussing theological matters even when surrounded by andrastians, but now, with the Inquisitor himself and several of his closest followers believing in vastly different things, he preferred to keep silent on these matters altogether.

“Oh, I see the nevarran delegation is quite flabbergasted. I’d better go to them and… steer their thoughts further in the right direction.” Lady Montilyet cast the last lingering gaze on the still circling dragon and sighed with wonder before returning fully to her duties.

“I’ll see you in the war room, when the commotion dies down,” Cullen said in lieu of farewell and strode purposefully to the tower where the Inquisitor was still patiently accepting the crowd’s adulation. Being the Commander of the forces had its perks – he could be the first one to hear the whole exiting tale of dragon-hunting under the guise of accepting the mission report.


	5. Chapter 5

In Dorian’s humble opinion, he had every reason to feel proud of himself. Not only had he left the pampered life of a magister’s son for the noble purpose of saving the world, he had also adjusted surprisingly well to the hardships and privations of a hero’s life. Why, he didn’t even bat an eyelash at daily near-death experiences anymore and even took rides on dragon’s back in stride. All that he wanted in return was a warm bath, a palatable meal and a little bit of peace and quiet to recover from the latest ‘fun adventure’.

To the Inquisition’s credit, his meager demands were mostly met due to a combination of Lavellan’s vehement insistence that he was an indispensible member of his inner circle and the public’s general desire to keep away from the bloodthirsty tevinter magister. Dorian had his nook in the library, his books and his research, and company of several less squeamish individuals when he desired it; so on the whole he was quite content with his situation.

But just in case of unwanted visitors he had an early warning system – a couple of mirrors that showed the entrances to his floor of the tower, so that he could notice any suspicious movement around his secluded corner. It was generally useful against mother Giselle who’d acquired a habit of randomly visiting the library and stumbling upon him ‘by chance’. The novelty of exchanging barbs with the revered mother had worn off pretty quickly and nowadays Dorian preferred to discretely slip away before she’d have that ‘chance’ to pester him.

Unfortunately, now the danger was far greater than a simple lecture on morale: upon lifting his head from the tome he’d had to abandon for the dubious pleasures of traipsing through the desert and dragon-hunting, Dorian saw Madame de Fer herself entering though the door that led to her preferred spot on the balcony over the great hall. Her countenance was genial enough for an unsuspecting observer, but Dorian had plenty of experience to notice great displeasure lurking beneath and didn’t need any hints to guess its cause.

He carefully put his book down, rose smoothly from his chair and beat a hasty retreat down the stairs that were conveniently situated right next to his nook. And, since his route – as well as Vivienne’s, if she chose to descend – conveniently took him through Solas’ rotunda, he decided it would be poor repayment for his recently saved life not to warn the fellow mage of the oncoming threat.

The elf, heedless of the danger, was contemplating his paintbrushes.

“Are you looking for the best way to depict our recent triumph?” Dorian enquired curiously.

The fight and subsequent taming of the dragon probably _were_ worthy of a place on the wall, but personally, Dorian thought their return trip turned out to be even more bizarre. Lavellan had been beyond giddy, because apparently his connection to the dragon let him share its joy of flight, the Iron Bull hadn’t needed any such connection to feel ecstatic and roar along with the beast, Cole had been too dazed with influx of positive emotions to string two words together and Dorian had found out that his seasickness unfortunately wasn’t restricted to sea travels alone. Solas, who had remained the only bastion of calm and reason during their mad journey, had to come to his rescue again, offering some herbs for him to chew to settle his revolting stomach.

“An image of tevinter magister puking his guts out over the dragon’s side would look marvelous near that mural of the Inquisitor closing the Rift,” he proposed. “Hmm, I wonder, does Corypheus have the same problem?”

Solas shot him a sideways glance. “You know, Varric asked me to illustrate his chronicles of the Inquisition,” he muttered. “If I agree, it will benefit greatly from your ingenious suggestions.”

“Well, naturally _anything_ can only benefit from my involvement,” Dorian declared with aplomb, earning an indulgent smile for his effort. “But let’s put aside those future plans for a moment: we are currently in danger of suffering enchanter Vivienne’s sharp-tongued _congratulations_ if we don’t vacate the premises.”

“Oh?” Solas sounded unconcerned, but Dorian didn’t miss a fleeting glance he’d shot to the stairwell entrance.

“We have a little headway,” he continued with the ‘status report’, “since she’d been waylaid by Fiona – I swear, that woman can hold a grudge! – so they’ll needle each other for a couple minutes more before Vivienne extricates herself. Still, we should hurry if we don’t want to hear everything our dear Madame de Fer has to say on the subject of being excluded from the major breakthrough in dragon-handling.”

“I thought you enjoyed the word-play?” Solas asked, still not looking at the other mage directly. “You never miss a chance to engage in them yourself.”

“There is a difference in intent,” Dorian objected. Surely the elf knew it; after the initial period of adjustment and mutual misconceptions he’d always responded to Dorian’s quips with subtle wit of his own. There was no hostility – overt or implied – in their interactions now, so Solas _must_ know that his jabs were in good humor, as opposed to Vivienne’s honey-coated poison. Mustn’t he?

“That there is,” the elf conceded to Dorian’s relief after a momentary pause. “Let us go then, before we are forced to face an enemy more terrifying in her wrath than an Abyssal High Dragon.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a fair bit of plans for world domination managed to wriggle itself into this part, because apparently I'm clinically unable to just write lighthearted stuff.

The Inquisitor eventually found them in a remote corner of the garden, comparing notes on uses of felandaris (as an aside, if Dorian were a lesser mage he’d have long ago fallen to his knees and begged Solas to take him as an apprentice, apostate hobo or not – the elf was a veritable fount of wisdom in all matters magical). Lavellan looked decidedly harried, which was to be expected after an entrance he’d made; everyone and their dog probably wanted to talk to, touch reverently or at least gaze longingly at the Herald, since even dragons now bowed to his will.

“Do you know,” Dorian said conversationally, “that Haven was once home to a cult that revered a High Dragon as an incarnation of Andraste herself?”

“As a matter of fact,” Lavellan answered caustically, “I _do_ know that. Moreover, I was informed about it by at least five people, all of which expected me to reach profound insights upon learning that. Do you have a point to make?”

Dorian hastily lifted his hands in surrender. “No-no, oh mighty Inquisitor, I didn’t mean to incur your wrath and humbly beg forgiveness.” Then he turned slightly and asked Solas in a stage-whisper: “did _you_ know about the cultists?”

“Yes, I did as well,” came the characteristically calm reply, “I’ve walked the Fade in Haven on many a night – its history is wrought with strife and as such a lure for all manner of spirits. But I’m sure the Inquisitor didn’t come all the way here to listen to my tales.”

“I wouldn’t mind to, sometime later,” Lavellan said earnestly, “but now I do have a more practical matter to discuss with you two. How quickly can you make another harness? Will it require adjustment for a different kind of dragon and for a different person to command it?”

Dorian could only gape unattractively at the outrageous questions while Solas sighed in a manner of a man resigned to his fate. “I had a feeling we would come to this. What do you have in mind, lethallin?”

“I’m going to Emprise du Lion next – there are multiple reports of Red Templar activity there; and Frederic also claims that there must be dragons of ice or electric kind, attracted to the hot springs east of Sahrnia. I’m thinking Cullen should be the–”

“Wait, wait, back up!” Dorian regained enough wit to rejoin the conversation. “Weren’t you going to the Exalted Planes?”

“No,” Lavellan all but rolled his eyes. “There’s a small matter of that civil war, you see. I have my hands full dealing with demons and rifts, I don’t have the patience and energy to defend myself against stupid shemlen who can’t set their priorities straight. My advisors tell me that the Empress and the Duke are almost ready to call the cease-fire, but why waste time while we wait for it?”

“Yes, why don’t we go and fight some more dragons in the meantime?” Dorian expostulated.

“You almost sound as if you don’t want a dragon of your own,” the Inquisitor smiled slyly.

“Me? But I–” Dorian sputtered. “But I thought Cullen–?”

“Naturally, the Commander of my forces is the first in line, but you, lethallin, are a not so distant second.”

The mage honestly didn’t know what threw him more – the promise of a pet dragon or an affectionate form of address. Of course, he himself claimed that Inquisition was turning into a family not long ago, but joking about in was one thing and hearing an actual confirmation – quite another. He was only hoping that his darker skin tone hid his pleased blush in the twilight.

“What earned me the place in this line, exactly?” he finally asked.

Lavellan looked around and, although their corner of the garden was pretty deserted, stepped even closer and lowered his voice. Dorian bent his head reflexively.

“Your plans for Tevinter. When the threat of Corypheus is over with the Inquisition will be the greatest power in the southern Thedas. It would be foolish and wasteful to simply lay down our arms and disband when we could accomplish so much more. I support you, and I’ve already seen that you’re not alone in your wish to change your homeland, so when you return the might of the Inquisition will be behind you.” Suddenly, a mischievous smile split his previously serious face. “But I’m sure your opposition will be already suitably cowed when they see you astride an electricity-spitting dragon.”

Dorian was honestly afraid he might cry. There were so many thoughts and questions swirling around in his head, but he couldn’t push anything though his painfully constricted throat. He _had_ known, in an abstract sort of way, that Lavellan approved of his goals, but never in his wildest dreams he could imagine this level of acceptance and support.

“Speechless at last?” Mahanon teased, laying a hand on his bare shoulder and squeezing gently. “Come on, I know you must have had plans beyond Corypheus’s defeat.”

“Well, yes, I… I’ve made plans, set things in motion…” Dorian replied, still dazed, “but I wasn’t sure I’d be… that you’d want to bother… And don’t you think it’s too early to make plans like this?”

“In my position it is beyond stupid to live in the day, ignoring tomorrow completely. Listen,” the Inquisitor urged, serious once more. “I’m speaking with you on these matters now, even before discussing them with my advisors, because although they understand that change is essential they still cling to the tatters of the past out of fear. You don’t. You have courage and foresight enough to fight for a new order of things. I accept that after the current threat is dealt with I’ll have to let some of my companions go, but I hope that _you_ will remain at my side. Both of you,” he added, and Dorian inwardly cursed because Solas had managed to once again completely fade into background of the conversation.

He turned to the other elf now, expecting an easy agreement, but Solas was strangely quiet.

Lavellan frowned. “What is it?” he asked anxiously. “You know the most about what I wish for and you have never objected. Was there something more important before the Rift opened that you absolutely must return to when all is said and done?”

Solas shook his head, as if he too needed a moment to truly believe he was welcome. “No, you’re right. We will talk of my plans later, but I’ll most probably be staying with you indefinitely.”

The Inquisitor’s frown instantly smoothed out and they were treated to a sharp-toothed smile. “Perfect. So then, I’ll be taking Vivienne to Emprise du Lion for the initial reconnaissance while you stay here and get ready to tame more dragons.”

“Out of curiosity,” Dorian drawled, trying to return their interaction to a semblance of normalcy after the recent revelations, “was she very upset about her exclusion from the research and development?”

“Probably,” Lavellan answered, unconcerned. “But I told her that her diplomatic work was equally as important and none of you could do it, so obviously everyone should just stick to the things they are best suited for.”

“You didn’t,” Solas sighed, because apparently even a reclusive elf could hear a casual insult to Vivienne’s magical prowess in that sentence.

“Didn’t I?” the Inquisitor outright laughed. “Dragon-taming harness,” he repeated, already turning and walking away, “work on it. I’ll send word when I need you.”

“Can you believe him?” Dorian demanded when he was out of sight, still reeling from the absurdity of it all.

“Mahanon never jokes about his plans,” Solas replied, calm as you please. “Perhaps I should start getting used to calling you _Archon Pavus_.”

Dorian opened his mouth to deliver a scathing retort, but what actually came out of it was a miserable “I need a drink.” Solas, the bastard, chuckled softly and turned him in the direction of the tavern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here's the end of this story (or rather, the part with plot). I honestly didn't expect it to focus so much on Dorian and Solas, but can't say I regret it (and now I'm actively planning to write a fic with an honest to God Dorian/Solas as main pairing).


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the promised bonus smut chapter.  
> And it's even on dragon's back, thanks to some encouragement.

It was practically impossible to find Mahanon in Skyhold. Not that the Inquisitor hid from anyone – although he loudly and repeatedly proclaimed that he preferred solitude to socializing – quite the contrary: he usually had so any things to do, people to talk to and places to visit that it was always easier to just sit still and wait for him to find you himself.

The Iron Bull, however, knew that in certain things his lover didn’t like to always be the initiator, that sometimes he preferred to be found instead. And, fortunately for them both, Bull had the desire and means to find him.

On the day of dragon-taming (and he wouldn’t be surprised if it became a regular holiday, if the impromptu festivities in Skyhold were anything to go by) Bull spent his evening among the Chargers, joyously recounting his adventure and raising numerous toasts to the magnificence of the beast and the ingenuity of the Inquisitor. There was no point in leaving early: he knew that advisors and diplomats would eat up Mahanon’s time, and only hoped that someone – probably Josephine – would have the presence of mind to feed him between the proceedings.

Only when the night had well and truly fallen did Bull leave the tavern to walk to the highest tower of Skyhold – Herald’s tower, as it was unofficially called for obvious reasons. Mahanon’s chambers were wide and airy, the best compromise with his habits that could be achieved in a castle, but the qunari didn’t climb the numerous stairs leading to his bedroom. Instead he ventured down, to the basement and the prison, and then lower still, though a rough-cut tunnel in the rock bed, finally emerging in the enormous cavern that now housed a dragon.

Bull gave himself a moment to admire the majestic creature, even if it was mostly hidden by darkness and only highlighted by the flames it snorted out. The incomparable exhilaration of flight still sung through his body and soul, filling him with wonder the likes of which he’d never known before.

But no, he thought a moment later, this wonder wasn’t completely new to him anymore – he needed only to turn his head further, to glimpse the willowy figure of his Kadan, and the same excitement and awe flooded his heart to the brim. It should have been disconcerting to be so affected by one single person, and it had troubled him once upon a time; but he could do nothing against the inexorable pull not unlike the force of gravity, and somewhere along the way he acknowledged and accepted its inevitability. He would enjoy the sensation of freefall while it lasted – after all, he wasn’t smashed on the ground or torn apart yet.

Mahanon stood near the stone ledge, looking nowhere in particular and tapping the tip of one boot on the floor – a clear indication that he was uncomfortable with his footwear but practical consideration prevented him from taking them off. Elves were particular that way, Bull knew, and he felt no remorse in distracting this particular elf from his petty troubles.

Having approached on silent feet, Bull caught his prey around the middle, spun him in a tight arc and pressed his back to the stone wall. He felt the lithe body tense for a second and gave Mahanon a moment to recognize the familiar firm pressure before swooping down and capturing his mouth in a drawn-out kiss. This part, at least, was long familiar and easy, and brought an uncomplicated pleasure without the need to define and analyze.

“So,” he drawled, “did you enjoy taming the beast?”

Light of a single torch carelessly shoved into a crack in the wall illuminated Mahanon’s upturned face, corners of his lips curled in a lopsided smirk.

“If it’s a lead-in for another of your horrible puns…” he said mock-threateningly.

(Bull still remembered fondly his Kadan’s reaction to ‘riding the Bull’ – Mahanon had lifted his eyebrows disbelievingly, pursed his lips in a very obvious attempt not to laugh outright and then replied that he only bedded sentient creatures whereas Bull’s unfortunate wording put his intelligence in doubt).

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Bull replied with a smile of his own, bending his head still further to nuzzle at the elf’s ear. “After all, I know perfectly well who is the most dangerous creature here, and how miserable are the chances of taming it.”

“Flatterer,” Mahanon muttered before his lips and tongue were once again occupied much more pleasurably.

“What are you doing here so late?” the qunari asked when his lover was panting and sufficiently flushed for his taste.

“I’m restless. Or rather, she’s restless and I feel it second-hand,” Mahanon answered, letting his eyes slid closed and resting his head on the broad palm Bull put behind his head to cushion it against the stone. “She’s not bothered by the cold, but this is new territory and she feels compelled to inspect it more carefully before she can accept it as a home.”

Bull didn’t miss the change from ‘it’ to ‘she’ Mahanon had made – this connection the mages invented for the benefit of taming the dragon made the Inquisitor all too aware of the beast. “So she wants to fly,” he said contemplatively, changing the pronoun as well. “Why don’t you let her?”

“I don’t believe it’s a good idea to let her roam free so soon after the ‘taming’,” Mahanon shrugged.

“Why don’t you fly with her?” was the next logical suggestion, but judging by the unhappy frown his face crumpled into, the elf didn’t find it all that appealing.

“I’m tired,” he all but whined, “all I want is to lie down and relax, but this felling,” he flung his hand in the direction of the dragon – or tried to, since it was still pinned between their chests, “it’s like an itch under my skin that I _just can’t scratch_!”

“You know,” it was Bull’s time to smirk, “you can lie down and relax perfectly well on the dragon’s back. That thing your favorite mages created is more comfortable than my own bed – undoubtedly the ‘Vint’s doing.” And he wasn’t exaggerating: Dorian and Solas’s invention had very little in common with a saddle (which would have been very uncomfortable either way, considering the difference in size between the rider and the mount) and most resembled a great blanket that could be turned into a springy platform on command. It had also had a number of safety loops that could be used to secure passengers and their cargo on the dragon’s back; and all that didn’t work at all if the dragon’s master wasn’t nearby – a handy precaution for any unpleasant enemy surprises. In any other case Bull would have been unnerved by the sheer amount of magic that went into creation and use of the harness, but it let him _ride the dragon_ , so he had no objections whatsoever. “And if you worry that you’re too tired to stir your dragon correctly, I can join you,” he added in a suggestive tone.

“Oh, I see how it is now,” Mahanon replied shrewdly, opening his eyes slightly, “all this attention is just a ploy to make me take you flying again,” he shook his head in mock-reproach. “Haven’t we talked about how you should simply ask for what you want? Now repeat after me: ‘ _Kadan, I want you to let me ride with you on the dragon so that I could later_ ’ – how did that phrase go, again? – ‘ _bring myself sexual pleasure while thinking about it with great respect_ ’.”

The elf looked so obscenely smug that Bull just _had to_ reply with: “Why, I don’t think I’d have to wait quite that long to bring myself _sexual pleasure_.”

The amber eyes widened incredulously. “You must be joking,” Mahanon whispered. Bull kept silent, smiling his best promising smile. “You’re crazy!” his prey chocked out, but Bull knew that the hitch in his breath meant desire instead of fear. “Bull–”

There was no point in listening to perfunctory objections, so Bull simply kissed him again, pushing him a little bit more firmly into the unforgiving stone and smoothing his free hand along the elf’s side to squeeze tenderly at his thigh. “You know the word, Kadan,” he murmured into the pointy ear and waited, but like all the times before, his lover didn’t order him to stop. “Now, call your dragon here so we can fly.”

*

The ledge was the perfect height to step onto the dragon’s back, as Bull knew from using it just this afternoon. He let Mahanon jump on first and followed only after he fiddled with the appropriate runes that unfolded the cloth platform and made it ready to receive passengers.

“Wait a second,” he commanded, before Mahanon did anything more. “I think you won’t be needing these,” and he casually knelt before the sitting Inquisitor to remove his boots and tickle teasingly along the soles of his feet. The elf huffed out a giggle and kicked at him, but offered no resistance when Bull pushed him into lying flat on his back. “And safety first, as our mages insist.”

The leather straps that secured riders on the dragon’s back operated – just like everything else here – on magic and thus could be just looped around the wrist loosely to fulfill their purpose. _But what would the fun in that be?_ , Bull reasoned, weaving the leather to trap both Mahanon’s hands securely against the carcass of the platform. He also used a larger belt to fasten around his middle, fixing him firmly in place.

He admired his work for a moment, nuzzling along his lover’s bound wrist and taking the tips of his fingers into his mouth one after another. He supposed he should take care of his own safety as well, loath though he was to restrict his own mobility. In the end he simply wound the leather once around his hand, laying it close to the elf’s wrist, and grabbed the edge of the platform for his own peace of mind. Mahanon tuned his head up, watching silently, then slid his fingers under the qunari’s thumb and folded a fist over it – the closest they could come to intertwining their fingers, with his so much bigger than his lover’s.

“Are you comfortable?” Bull asked, lying down and stretching along the elf’s flank.

“Always,” came the smiling reply.

“Then let us fly.”

The powerful body beneath them stirred, muscles shifting and moving, great wings unfurling in preparation. Without a word or a gesture the dragon had answered his master’s order, and Bull didn’t know what excited him more – the beast’s leap into the air or Mahanon’s perfect command of it. And did it really matter, when he could reap the benefits of both and exert his own command – however illusory – over the most amazing creature of all? The kiss this time was buzzing with tension, just like his lover was thrumming under the sudden influx of energy – a side-effect of the magical connection they were both going to enjoy.

Bull let himself submerge fully into the moment, take in the darkness swiftly rushing past, the swish and rustle of leathery wings, the starlight reflecting off the mountaintops and – the most immediate and most precious – the wiry strength of the body alongside his, straining in its bindings to get more, closer, _now!_ His own arousal slammed into him suddenly, all but driving air from his lungs and forcing him to press down and forward, rutting against the slim hip. All his training told him he wasn’t supposed to succumb to his instincts so mindlessly… only he was, because his lover’s close-mouthed moan left no doubt about his appreciation of the move.

“You take me to the best places,” he muttered, working one-handed on the tiny clasps of Mahanon’s jacket. His fingers were itching to move further down, to cup the swelling flesh he was doubtless to find there, but he continued to tease them both – just for a few moments longer, while he still had the necessary restraint.

“I hope that you–” Mahanon gasped slightly when the questing digits abandoned their course to skim over his chest and tweak a nipple, “–will take me as well.”

And of course, the great Inquisitor was allowed to make puns any time he wished – but honestly, Bull had no problems with that, because there was no disguising the clear want and the candid invitation of those words. He moved his kisses lower, to the exposed clavicles, catching the skin lightly with his teeth while his hand finally – finally! – slid between his lover’s legs and gripped the hardness there, eliciting another breathless almost-moan.

“You can scream, if you like,” he growled teasingly.

“I don’t scream,” the hoarse voice didn’t even try for indignation, while the whole body wrenched to press harder into the broad palm, “which doesn’t mean that I don’t want you to _hurry the fuck up_!”

The profanity was only a consolation price, but it spurred Bull into action all the same. He made a quick work of his lover’s breeches and closed his hand over the freed erection, squeezing gently and sliding his fist up and down. The darkness mostly hid his lover from view and the wind made hearing him harder, but the honest reaction of his body, the fine trembling and involuntary widening of his legs told Bull all that he wanted and more about his Kadan’s desires.

A sudden shift in the wings’ movement and a sharp turn jerked him sideways, and he ended up fully between the elf’s legs. Funny, how he’d almost forgotten that they were flying – and in the next second it was just a distant thought again, because his clothed erection was now pressed intimately to his lover’s and he couldn’t for the life of him remember what was the point of holding back.

The kiss they exchanged was furious and biting, and Bull had just enough presence of mind to not lose the small jar of salve he’d always used, and then – to pause once again with his slick fingers pressed between his lover’s cheeks.

“ _Elgar’nan_!” Mahanon cursed through clenched teeth, “Why are you stopping? You _know_ I won’t say it!” Which he knew, but still had to check before plunging a finger inside.

The string of elven expletives was definitely meant to encourage him, because he could recognize simple words like ‘harder’ and ‘faster’ through multiple previous repetition. The qunari was only too happy to oblige, stretching his lover swiftly and sloppily, while his lips and tongue paid loving attention to the narrow chest and trembling abdomen.

When the fingers were exchanged for the cock Bull ground out a curse of his own, past restraint and past caring for anything other then delicious pressure. He caught one of his lover’s legs under the knee and hitched it higher, opening him up further for the assault, and lost himself completely in the bliss.

He was hunched over the elf, driving into him with short powerful thrusts, and ridiculously near orgasm after only a couple of minutes, when they were both gripped with a sudden sense of weightlessness. The dragon they’d both forgotten again was diving, and they were falling with it, tethered to its back only by straps of leather.

“ _Taarsidath-an halsaam!_ ” Bull roared, because there really wasn’t anything more appropriate he could have said, and Mahanon threw his head back and laughed – a carefree, joyous sound Bull had never heard before. For a beautiful, terrible, suspended moment in time he wanted to possess him utterly.

Then momentum was pressing them both into the platform, and his erection – impossibly deeper into the welcoming heat, and the laughter was turning mid-sound into a full-throated scream of completion.

*

“Are you relaxed enough now, Kadan?” Bull asked with just a hint of teasing in his quiet voice. Their clothes were back in order, and he was carefully unwinding leather straps from Mahanon’s wrists.

“I don’t think I can move anymore,” the elf murmured in reply, matching action – or non-action – to words and letting the qunari shift his hands as he pleased, massaging the strained muscles; even his lips barely moved to form words. “And I still think you’re crazy.”

“What does that make you then, since you’ve gone along with my crazy idea?”

“Gullible?” the elf suggested after a moment of consideration. Bull laughed.

“Good one! Does that mean I’ll be able to trick you again in the future?”

Mahanon hummed in thought. “You can certainly try.”

Bull closely examined the freed wrists and was not entirely surprised to find only indentations on the skin, with no chafing or blood. He knew it simply meant that Dorian had been very careful with the magical safety precautions, and must have done something to the leather so no sudden jerks would damage the riders – which didn’t meat he wouldn’t tease him later about his foresight concerning the Inquisitor’s sexual escapades.

“It’s nice here,” Mahanon yawned, curling on his side and weakly tugging at the hand holding his own. Bull obliged by cocooning him in an embrace, and made a questioning noise. “No walls,” the elf explained, “no bothersome diplomats. No stairs.”

“No boots,” Bull suggested in the same vein.

“That too.”

“Would you return to your previous life if you had the chance?” he asked without thinking.

“Ha! Not even if you paid me for it,” the elf replied with enviable ease and unselfconsciously burrowed deeper into the embrace. “Although it would be fun to try and explain you to Keeper Istimaethoriel.”

“Are we at the meeting-the-family stage already?” Bull said with a fake gasp of surprise. “Then I must work on making the best impression possible.”

“Maybe you should work on your accent first. Last time you’ve tried to say _Andaran atish’an_ –”

Bull had long ago perfected the art of interrupting unwanted teasing, so he shifted down and caught the smiling mouth in a very thorough and very satisfying kiss.

“Did you have enough flying for the day, _ma sulahn’nehn_?” Mahanon asked a little bit later, the elven endearment sliding sweetly off his lips.

“M-hm. But not nearly enough of you.”

A gradual pressure told Bull that the dragon was turning in a wide arc, obeying his master’s command to return home.

“Good then,” his Kadan’s lips curled into a satisfied smile in between fleeting kisses, “I won’t have to _walk_ all those thrice cursed stairs to my bedroom.”

Bull chuckled and promised to carry him anywhere he wished before relaxing into the illusory calm of their ride through nighttime sky.

In that moment he felt a very close kinship to the dragon – after all, they were both well and truly tamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Taarsidath-an halsaam!_ is that phrase about sexual pleasure and great respect.
> 
> Wow, I've actually done it!  
> Thanks again to all those who read and commented or left kudos. (And, of course, I would very much like to know what you thought of this chapter.)


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